


Super Villain Origin Story

by mtothedestiel



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: (not really) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Eliot Waugh's perfect hair, Everybody Lives, Fluff and Humor, Heist, M/M, Meet-Cute, Origin Story, Secret Identity, Superheroes, Villains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24150412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtothedestiel/pseuds/mtothedestiel
Summary: It's a mid-heist meet cute. Things escalate from there.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 34
Kudos: 136





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snoopypez](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snoopypez/gifts).



> Hello all! This fic is for #NotAloneHere auction grab bag winner @snoopypez! Thanks so much for your donation and for this fun prompt! This is my twist on "a villain who commits crimes because they want to impress the hero but they don't know how to flirt like a regular person". I'm posting chapters 1&2 at the same time. There will also be a short chapter 3 that I'll be posting hopefully in just a few hours. 
> 
> Also shout out to PanBoleyn, because I've been reading her Till We Reach the Circle's End which is an amazing fic that in a roundabout way inspired Quentin's powers in this fic.

When Eliot imagined himself falling into a life of crime, he thought it would be something glamorous. A jewel thief, maybe, or a King Pin type who wears stunning suits and listens to opera while ordering around henchmen. At the very least he thought there would be a cool outfit involved. He’s fucking telekinetic, and pretty strong too, if he does say so himself. Surely there could be a niche for him among the top tier supervillains. 

Instead his first foray into illegality has him basically kneeling in gravel in his least expensive pair of black trousers and a turtleneck, about to spend an hour acting as a human safety harness. Margo hadn’t even let him levitate them up to the roof of the museum they were robbing. They’d climbed a _utility ladder_ like total plebs. The rust has utterly scuffed Eliot’s best black leather gloves.

 _The whole point of this is_ not _to attract attention, El._

_C’mon, Margo. We’re supers. Why not commit grand larceny with a little style?_

And that’s why they’re both wearing black costume masks. It’s an understated look. Elegant. And most importantly, not a ski mask. If Eliot ends up getting a mugshot taken tonight—which, odds are mixed at this point— his hair is going to be perfect. 

“Okay, up we go.” 

On the roof of the museum, Eliot levitates Margo a few inches off the ground so he can give her a kiss for luck without having to bend over like usual. 

“Feel alright?” he asks. “Ready for the big dance?” 

Margo winks behind her mask. Despite her objects to the affectation, she did compliment the look with a stunning glitter eyeshadow. 

“I was born ready, darling.” 

With little more than a mental nudge, Eliot lowers Margo through the open skylight, and into the dark exhibition space below. 

The first step to committing the perfect crime is picking an easy target. For example, the dated campus museum of an extremely wealthy private university nestled in the middle of the big city, where you just happen to know a lock on the skylight window has rusted through and isn’t scheduled to be repaired until next week.

Margo’s next words come through the communicator in Eliot’s ear. 

“ _Alright, let me ice up, here.”_

The second step is to be telekinetic, and to have an accomplice who can lower her body temperature at will so as not to set off the temperature alarms in the Rare Books room below. 

Easy. 

_“Okay, I’m at temperature. Let me down slow.”_

“Say, when, Bambi.” 

_“No names, El!”_ Margo hisses, followed by a short, vehement, “ _Fuck.”_

Eliot can’t help but laugh. 

“God, we’re bad at this.”

“Bad at what?” 

Eliot startles hard at the sound of a new voice behind him, and Margo drops nearly a full six feet before Eliot catches her. 

“ _Eliot, what the ever loving—”_

“Sorry, Bambi. Just got surprised up here. Hang tight.” 

Holding Margo steady, Eliot turns to see who the fuck managed to get the drop on him. They’d spent weeks planning this heist, and he isn’t about to see it ruined by some spandex wearing upstart. 

Or a blazer wearing cutie, apparently. Who also appears to be anxiously floating a few feet off the ground and...is see-through? Glowing blue eyes and Targaryen white hair fluttering in the nonexistent breeze complete a vaguely spooky look, but Cutie must have forgotten to suit up before going ghost. Unless his persona is Super Grad Student, in which case the look is perfect. Nineties messenger bag and all.

“Stay back,” Eliot warns, holding his hands up like they might throw laser beams or some shit. Telekinesis won’t actually do much against a guy who can fly, and Eliot wouldn’t push somebody off a building anyway, but cute ghost-boy doesn’t know that. “We’re kind of in the middle of something here, and we don’t need any acts of derring-do fucking things up.” 

“Daring-what?” Cutie wrinkles his nose. “I’m not— I mean, are you robbing this museum?” 

“On a cosmic level, no,” Eliot replies. “On a literal level...yes. Why, are you a cop?”

“Ew, no,” Cutie says, which endears him to Eliot at once. “Whatever you’re doing—”

“Robbing the rich to feed the poor,” Eliot supplies helpfully. It’s mostly true. 

“If you say so. All I’m saying is, I don’t want to be here, and really don’t want to get killed because you don’t want witnesses to your non-crime or whatever.” 

“First of all, murder is gauche, and unbecoming of a villain of my caliber,” Eliot assures him. Rule one of a good super villain persona: never reveal that you aren’t actually a super villain. “Second of all, what do you mean you ‘don’t want to be here’?” 

“I’m...I don’t know.” Cutie kicks his feet under him ineffectively, like a duck trying to paddle. It would be funny if he didn’t look so distressed. “I’m not doing this on purpose.”

“So you’re not normally transparent?” Eliot guesses, which is the wrong thing to say. 

“I’m _transparent?_ ” Cutie runs his hands frantically through his glowing hair. They’re nice hands, Eliot happens to notice. He’s on a heist, not blind.

“Just a little,” Eliot promises. “It’s okay, you’re among friends. I don’t judge based on opacity.” 

Cutie looks skeptical. “How do I know we’re friends?” 

“You’re not gonna fuck up me and Bambi rescuing a priceless Islamic manuscript from some heartless imperialists, are you?” Cutie shakes his head. “Then we’re friends. Just...give me _one_ quick second.” 

With a quick murmured _all good up here, M, tell me when,_ Eliot begins to lower Margo the last few feet down to the temperature controlled case from which they intend to liberate a sixth century copy of the Qur’an that rightfully belongs to a recently looted local museum in Tunisia. 

The things you do with a degree in art history these days. When Margo is safely hovering at the perfect angle to start picking the lock on the case, Eliot turns his attention back to Ghost Cutie. He’s looking at him with something like awe. 

“You, like, glow a little, when you do whatever it is you’re doing,” he says, eyes on Eliot’s hands. “It’s, um, a good look.”

Eliot can’t help but grin a little. He’s a creature of ego, sue him. 

“It has its pros and cons,” he says, thinking of his day job, and how much easier it would be he could use his powers without making his own warm light Instagram filter. “So let’s talk about you…?” 

“Quentin,” comes the reply when Eliot pauses. “I’m Quentin.” 

“Okay Quentin. So you’re levitating, and possibly non-corporeal. Any idea what might have led to these unusual circumstances?”

“I’m new in town,” says Cutie— _Quentin._ “And I’m supposed to start this job tomorrow that I really need, but then this old guy on the subway gave me this weird box and said ‘I’d know what to do’ and like an _idiot_ I opened it and now I’m _flying_ but also like I can’t stop and also I think even if I could get my feet on the ground I would just fall right through the floor because I think I’m a _ghost—“_

“Whoa, hang on, let’s just—uh, let’s just take a minute to breathe, okay?” Eliot cuts in as Quentin gets even more pearly and his eyes start to flare as he works himself up. “It sounds like you’re just a new super. Weird trinket box on the subway isn’t the most typical, but that shit happens around here all the time.” 

“A super?” Quentin repeats, his eyes fading back to brown as he focuses on Eliot again. He drifts a little closer, whether of his own volition or because of the stiff breeze Eliot couldn’t say. 

“Wow, okay, you’re _really_ new in town. Pick up a newspaper tomorrow, you’ll get the picture.” Eliot keeps his voice—and his hold on Margo, getting shit done thirty feet below them—steady. “Long story short, you’ve got super powers. Something, hm, _spectral_ , by the look of things. That’ll be interesting. We don’t have one of those yet.”

Quentin wrings the strap of his messenger bag in his hands. “I don’t think I want superpowers.”

“That might not be up to you anymore,” Eliot says, not unsympathetic. “It’s not a choice for most of us. All we can do is get a handle on things and do our best.” 

“How do I get a handle on—“ Quentin gestures are his hovering state. “—whatever the fuck this is?” 

“Have you ever been to therapy?” 

Quentin’s shoulder hunch immediately. “That seems kind of personal.” 

Okay, Eliot probably should have guessed that that would be a land mine. 

“Sorry,” Eliot says. “I just meant, has anyone ever taught you any mindfulness exercises? You know, granola breathing stuff.” 

“Oh, yeah. I guess,” Quentin replies. “It never did much for me. Anxiety has never really been my problem.” 

Quentin flinches again, like he’s revealed too much, but Eliot presses on.

“Well I’m willing to bet anxiety is part of your problem now,” he says. “And newbie powers tend to be hooked up to your emotions.” 

“So I’m supposed to _breathe_ my way out of this?” 

Eliot shrugs, like _what can you do._ “Find your Zen, Casper. Manifest some tranquility, and, you know, corporeality. I’ll help you count.” 

And so like a beginner’s yoga class, they breathe together. In eight, hold four, etc. etc. Quentin closes his eyes, a cute little furrow of concentration between his brows, but Eliot doesn’t close his. The view is too good. And because he doesn’t close his eyes, Eliot doesn’t miss it when Quentin shimmers totally blue for a second, then drops to the gravel covered roof with a swift and decidedly solid _thump_. 

“Ow.”

Eliot offers him a hand up from where he’s landed on his ass. 

“Any injuries?” 

“Just my pride.”

Quentin lets Eliot help him to his feet, brushing dirt off the back of his pants. Without the glow he’s a lot less pale. His hair isn’t white either. Eliot thinks, as Quentin tucks it behind his ears self consciously, that the russet kind of brown suits him much better. He’d like to get a look in better light than the ambient glow of street lamps they’re in now, because he’s starting to think Quentin might be really handsome. God, he’s a good height too. Not matchy-matchy, but they wouldn’t look silly slow dancing. Every boy’s dream.

As if he can feel Eliot’s staring, Quentin shifts awkwardly. 

“Um, how do I get down from here?” 

Eliot hums. “Well, if you’re not going to just fly yourself—“

Quentin shakes his head rapidly, looking like a spooked baby deer. Lord, the things Eliot would do to soothe that tremble, if his partner in crime wasn’t breaking into a display case with nothing but his concentration holding her above the pressure pads on the floor. 

“Normally I’d give you a lift—“ Eliot twirls his fingers, just nudging Quentin an inch off the ground to show off a little. “—but I’m a little tied up right now.” 

Quentin laughs as Eliot settles him back onto the gravel, much less disturbed by Eliot’s powers than his own. Understandable really. Still, the twinkle in his eye is delectable. 

“Okay, then how should I—” 

“There’s a utility ladder right over there. You’re not scared of heights, right?” 

Quentin grins, lopsided and a little wry. “Apparently not.” 

“It’s solid anyway, we got up here with no trouble,” Eliot promises. “Just walk a block or two for me when you get down? I wouldn’t want an Uber map to link either of us to any unsavory activities.” 

“Oh, right. Sure.” Quentin swings his leg over the side of the roof onto the first rung of the ladder. “Bye, I guess. And, you know. Thanks.” 

“Good luck with your ghost powers,” Eliot says, blowing him a kiss. One had to try out their devilishly sexy villain trademarks somewhere. “I hope our paths cross again, Q.” 

It’s too dark to see, but Eliot likes to think Quentin blushes before disappearing down the side of the building and into the night.

 _“I swear to god, Eliot, your inability to not flirt with any dick carrying random is my_ _super villain origin story.”_

Flicking his hair out of his eyes, Eliot returns his thoughts to the task at hand.

“Ah, is that the sweet call of my beloved Bambi?”

“ _Just pull me up, Romeo. I’ve got the package.”_

“Lovely.” 

All according to plan, pretty interlopers notwithstanding.

“Well done, us,” Eliot declares when Margo is back on the roof and their stolen manuscript is safe in its custom made transport packaging. “Though I do feel bad. Whoever runs acquisitions is going to have a long day at the office tomorrow.” 

He and Margo glance at one another before they both break out in peals of giggles. It’s not exactly villainous behavior, but they’ll work on it. 

“Let’s hit the road,” Margo says after, tucking their treasure into a nondescript backpack. “We’ve still got to get this to the airport, and you’ve got to look well rested for work tomorrow.” 

“Indeed, Bambi,” Eliot agrees. “It’s going to be the performance of a lifetime.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next day...

“Yes. ...yes. Absolutely, Mr. Billingham, I can’t tell you how devastated I am,” says Eliot Waugh, the Brakebills University Museum Director of Acquisitions and Donor Relations, into his office phone. “I assure you, we’re doing everything we can to cooperate with the authorities and recover your manuscript. I have every confidence the police will catch the criminals responsible. ….yes, I agree their punishment should be as gruesome as possible.” 

Eliot twists the cord of the phone absently around his fingers while the off-shore account owning arms dealer/alumni donor shouts his ear off. 

“Actually, there  _ is  _ something you can do,” he replies to a hardly veiled threat over the line. “I was just giving my statement to the lead detective and I assured him that you would be able to provide a  _ thorough  _ provenance for the manuscript.”

Eliot looks up at a knock on his office door. He waves in Monica from the front desk— 

—and nearly drops the phone when standing right behind her is none other than Quentin the Friendly Ghost, looking decidedly un-ghostlike and wearing a press badge around his neck.

The only witness to Margo and Eliot’s colorful caper is a  _ reporter _ . A brief cataclysm flashes before his eyes, of Eliot’s little crush spilling the beans and he and Margo being forced to blast their way out of prison and start a new life somewhere in South America. 

“—yes, the provenance,” Eliot says, sitting up straight in his chair. “Just in case—not that this would ever occur to a man of integrity like yourself—but should there be anything fishy about how the book was acquired, it would probably be a key lead in the case.” 

That results in a brief and weighted silence on the other end of the line, as Eliot expected. 

“I’m afraid I have to leave us there,” he says, eyes on Quentin who’s just spotted Eliot and gone white as a sheet, no pun intended. “I’ll be sure to keep you updated, and I’ll let the police know they can expect your eager cooperation. Bye now!” 

Eliot hangs up the phone in the middle of what was sure to be a colorful reply. 

“Eliot, I know you’re in the middle of a crisis,” Monica says apologetically. “But this is Quentin Coldwater from the Daily Times. The director said he should talk to you about the break in.” 

“Of course,” Eliot says, rising to shake Quentin’s hand as if they’ve never met. “I always have time for the intrepid press. Please sit, Quentin.” 

“Thanks...Eliot.” Quentin says, watching him with wary eyes as he takes a seat in the chair across from Eliot’s desk. Monica leaves them with a soft click on the office door. 

“Well,” Eliot says, perching lightly on the edge of his desk. His long legs stretch out beside Quentin’s chair, so that their thighs are almost brushing. “This is a tricky first assignment.” 

Quentin clutches his laptop to his chest, hiding the excellent fit of his white dress shirt. Eliot’s eyes hadn’t been deceiving him last night. 

“Um, yeah. I’ve been trying not to give anything away,” Quentin says, looking over his shoulder as though Monica might be listening at the door. “I know way more than any of the police they had me talk to.” 

“I should hope so.” Eliot says, crossing his arms. “I suppose the mask didn’t work that well, then.” 

“I could tell by your hair,” Quentin says, casting his gaze on the floor with a blush. “...and your hands. But, um, nobody seems to think it was an inside job. They all feel really bad for you, actually.” 

“That was the plan.” Eliot picks at a bit of tape stuck on the edge of his desk, a flash of nerves in his gut for the first time since this whole scheme came together. “Quentin, you’re not going to write anything about this, are you?”

Quentin’s eyes widen. “Jesus, no,” he says. “I mean—I have to write  _ something,  _ but I’ll just report what the police tell me. I kind of promised you, didn’t I?”

Eliot exhales. He and Margo won’t have to disappear and start a new life in Argentina. The climate would have been nice, but god the humidity. Eliot’s hair would have never survived.

“I just,” Quentin continues, raising his eyebrows. “You  _ work  _ here?” 

“I’m a man of complex motivations,” Eliot replies, easing into more of a lounge against his desk now that he knows he isn’t going to jail. “But tell me, Quentin, how is your first day going? Any unexpected challenges? Hurdles? Episodes of transparency?”

Quentin tucks his hair behind his ears, hiding a trace of a grin. “The breathing has been working,” he says. “I, um, I managed the change on purpose this morning. It wasn’t as weird as the first time.” 

“Have you thought of a name yet?” Eliot asks, flicking his eyebrows. “I had a few ideas, if you’re still thinking up secret identities.” 

“Secret—” Quentin’s brow furrows and then his eyes widen as he shakes his head. “No way. I don’t even  _ want—”  _ he lowers his voice to a whisper, “—powers. Or whatever this ghost stuff is. Getting involved with super anything is the last thing I need.” 

“You say that now,” Eliot hums. “I thought the same thing, but it’s a rush. I might have given myself a taste for it, with last night’s little errand.” 

“A taste for villainy?” 

Eliot throws out a careless, carefully curated gesture. He’s very aware that he has nice hands. Quentin commented on them earlier. Eliot wants to see if he notices them again.

He does. 

“What is a ‘villain,’ really?” Eliot asks. “A well planned outfit. A little theatre. Panache. And besides, it’s not like there’s any new heroes in town who might thwart the nefarious schemes I devise.” 

“I suppose not,” Quentin says slowly. 

With his hands on the edge of the desk, Eliot leans forward just a touch and raises his eyebrows. It’s about as explicit an invitation as he can muster without getting NSFW. Quentin bites his lip, and traces his gaze up Eliot’s long and well dressed frame. 

Message received. 

“If, um, I was to,” Quentin says, blushing. “I mean, you said you had some ideas. Maybe you could tell me about them sometime?” 

“Off the record?” Eliot asks, glancing at Quentin’s laptop. 

“Off—oh, of course,” he stammers, before he catches Eliot’s smile and realizes he’s teasing him again. “God, you’re always like this, aren’t you?” 

“Only if you’re very good,” Eliot promises. “Can I take you out for a coffee? ”

Quentin Coldwater smiles, and Eliot thinks that there’s a lot he might do to keep that smile turned toward him.

“Yeah. I’d like that.” 

* * *

Things escalate a bit from there, in more ways than one. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years later...

“...and while technically not illegal, authorities are calling it— and I’m quoting here—‘a dick move.’”

Quentin lets himself into the apartment with an armload of groceries. Juggling the full reusable bags, Quentin frowns at the sound of the television on in the living room. 

Oh boy. His husband is usually fastidious about that kind of thing. Unless...

“Again, if you’re just tuning in,” reports the well-coiffed news anchor for channel five, “A giant block of ice has just been levitated into McAllister Memorial Park, and two colorfully costumed villains are claiming responsibility for the new glacier. The Magician and Ms. Frost are refusing to negotiate with park rangers. With the Ultra League still on their latest intergalactic mission, this looks like a job for local neighborhood hero Specter!” 

Quentin leans his head back against the front door with a rueful laugh as he watched the playback footage of “The Magician” hovering over a chunk of ice bigger than some of the surrounding buildings, with “Ms. Frost” kicking her legs over the side with a shit eating grin. The footage cuts to live feed, where the notorious pair appear to be sunbathing on top of the city's new iceberg. 

“God damn it, Eliot.” 

Eliot had encouraged him to take the afternoon off, and now it’s pretty clear why. And here Quentin had thought he’d spend a few hours catching up on laundry and surprising his partner with a well stocked fridge when he got home from the museum where he miraculously still had a job three years later.

Well, one out of two isn’t bad at least. 

Putting milk in the fridge so it doesn’t spoil, Quentin pulls out his phone and calls his husband. He literally watches on screen as Eliot answers.

“Really, honey?” Quentin asks without waiting for a greeting, exasperated.

“Quentin!” Eliot is beaming. “You saw the news. Surprise!” 

On the television, Eliot blows the camera a black gloved kiss as Margo summons a flurry of snowballs to lob at the agitated park rangers below.

“I thought we agreed to lay low for a while after the Indestructress almost nabbed you last time,” Quentin says dryly. 

“This is urgent villainy work,” Eliot declares with a flourish. “We’re...protesting climate change, or something. Anyway, come thwart us! Bambi learned a new trick, so it’ll be really fun when you phase through the ice cube.“ 

Quentin rolls his eyes. Margo found some new kind of cryomancy to throw at him and...is Eliot wearing a new cape? It seems longer, and Quentin doesn’t remember the scarlet satin lining from his last run in with his “nemesis.” Whatever. It looks great, which Eliot knows full well.

“You know,” Quentin says, “If I  _ really _ wanted to thwart you, I’d just point out to my editor that you’ve never actually done anything villainous, and that you’re both anti-heroes at  _ best.  _ I can see the headline now.”

“Ack! You fiend! And here I am trying to make our anniversary special.” 

“I thought we already had plans,” Quentin says as he phases into spectral mode. It took a lot of practice but now going ghost is as easy as breathing. Getting into the spandex is another matter. He types the code into his and Eliot’s shared secret closet and when the door hisses open, Eliot’s violet and black ensemble is already missing. No surprises there. “I believe your exact words were ‘a quiet dinner at home.’”

“We’ve still got plans, sweetheart,” Eliot purrs. “But how about a little role play to spice things up? I’ll be the charismatic supervillain, and you can be the earnest hero who puts me in handcuffs.” 

“And then I teach you the error of your ways?” Quentin guesses as he pulls off his sweater, pretending he isn’t a little breathless. He’s also pretending he’s not gonna be the one in the cuffs by the time the night is over. 

“All night long, baby.” 

Quentin sighs. 

“Eliot…” 

There’s a pause over the line, and if he didn’t know better Quentin would say Eliot might be  _ nervous _ . As if Quentin hasn’t been complaining all week about how dull things have been at the office and if only  _ someone _ would do something to mix things up.

“Did you really move that whole iceberg by yourself?” Quentin asks. He can see Eliot’s grin bloom on camera even from here. 

“What, like it’s hard?” he replies, flicking his hair out of his eyes in the way he knows drives Quentin absolutely wild.

It’s actually very hard, and Eliot is amazing, and he  _ knows  _ that Quentin thinks he’s amazing. And for some reason he thinks Quentin is amazing too. 

Enough to marry him, even. Who would have thought. 

“I’ll be there in ten,” Quentin says, tugging on the fitted sleeves of the costume Eliot promised made his butt look  _ so good, Q, ohmygod. _ “I hope you have a good monologue ready for me.” 

“For you, sweetheart? Always.” 

Quentin zips up his super suit, and with one last check to make sure he hasn’t left any groceries to spoil, he’s off to save the day, and maybe his husband while he’s at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this little caper! I look forward to your comments :D


End file.
